


The Art of Balancing

by blacktofade



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-11
Updated: 2010-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktofade/pseuds/blacktofade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Movieverse] Based on <a href="http://sherlockkink.livejournal.com/439.html?thread=1180343#t1180343">THIS</a> prompt from the <a href="http://sherlockkink.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://sherlockkink.livejournal.com/"></a><b>sherlockkink</b> meme; <i>Holmes and Watson are arguing about Watson moving out. This leads to them pushing each other up against walls and lots of angry, sloppy kissing and ends with Watson giving Holmes a really filthy blow job.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Balancing

It’s Watson’s last night and to all intents and purposes, the atmosphere in the room is rather comfortable. Holmes is sitting behind his desk, scratching away at a piece of paper – maybe letters addressed to no one in particular; maybe a list of ways he can incense Watson, even when he’s no longer living with him – and Watson is sprawled over an armchair that has so much cushioning he can longer feel his backside, reading, or at least pretending to. Watson shifts uncomfortably trying to instil feeling back into the whole of his body, not just parts, and tries to focus on the pages before him – something about the medicinal uses of leeches in ancient Indian societies.

“Is something the matter?” Holmes asks, not looking up from his writing.

“What would give you reason to believe that?”

This time Holmes _does_ lift his head, his forehead furrowed and his eyes seemingly darker in the poorly lit room.

“You have failed to turn a page of your book for close to seven minutes now; what is on your mind?”

Watson looks away from Holmes to the window, which he can’t really see much out of because the mantelpiece clock says it’s almost eleven at night, but can use the reflections in it to keep an eye on Holmes, just not so directly.

“Something you ate? Are you not warm enough?” Holmes presses, then falls silent for a few beats before adding, “Cold feet about tomorrow?”

Watson doesn’t answer, just closes his book – because what’s the point in pretending anymore? – and sets it on his lap.

“You don’t have to leave, Watson,” Holmes says, but it sounds more like a plea than a statement.

Watson sits up straight and finally looks at Holmes.

“I do, Holmes, you know I do.”

“Is that what Mary’s been telling you?”

Watson sets the book on the arm of the chair and leans forwards.

“Do not bring my wife into this.”

“She’s not your wife, yet,” is all Holmes counters with, as though he’s hoping that saying it out loud will make it more true.

“It’s going to happen, Holmes, I don’t know why you can’t just be happy for me, like any other normal human being,”

Holmes regards him coolly, as though silently saying _but I’m not like any other normal human being_ , and Watson realises it’s true; perhaps that’s why he continues to stick around, continues to subject himself to such torment, because he’ll never find another person quite like Holmes.

“Why are you marrying her?” Ignoring Watson’s loud sputter of objection, Holmes raises his voice and continues. “Give me three good reasons why you’re marrying her.”

“Holmes, I will not stand for this! If you were a true friend, you’d understand that I love her and—”

“—And what?” Holmes interrupts, “you’re marrying her only for love? Do let me know how that works out for you.”

Watson stands, shaking with anger. Only Holmes manages to make him go from relaxed and reading to uptight and yelling in zero seconds flat. This is why he needs to go.

“Holmes, every other time, you’ve pushed the boundaries, but this time you’ve gone too far!”

Holmes copies him by standing, but it’s so sudden that his chair topples over with the forceful backwards shove he gives it.

“I could say the same for you, Watson; cease your practical joke and admit that you’re not leaving.”

Watson laughs bitterly and steps forward, moving around Holmes’ desk without even glancing at it, closing the space between himself and Holmes, until there’s only half a metre or so left.

“I’m leaving,” he says in a deathly cold voice, “so you had better grow up and accept it.”

He stares into Holmes’ eyes, trying to figure out his true motives, but he can’t read anything but anger and upset and hurt in his expression. He knows he shouldn’t, that Holmes provoked such a response from him, but he feels absolutely terrible, as though he’s rubbing salt onto an open wound Holmes has, and Holmes is screaming for him to stop, but he just can’t, just to make a point. It might not even be worth it, he thinks, but then apparently Holmes realises that two can play such a game.

Before Watson can properly react, Holmes pushes him squarely against the chest and he stumbles back a step or two.

“Holmes?” he asks, sending a warning to Holmes, asking him whether he really wants to do this now, if he really wants to spend their last night fighting, but then Holmes shoves him again and Watson is given no choice.

With a swing of his arm, Watson clips Holmes around the side of the head, sending him sideway, crashing loudly into the wall next to the fireplace. Holmes lets out a yell of shock that is mostly just vowel sounds and tucks his arms up to protect his face from further attacks, cowering like he never really intended on fighting. Watson steps into his personal space, towering over Holmes with his height advantage, and Holmes blinks up at him between the forearms over his head.

Too busy concentrating on the top half of Holmes, Watson temporarily forgets about the bottom half. It’s a cheap shot when Holmes slams his foot onto Watson’s toes, making them throb heavily in his shoe. Watson doubles over slightly and his forehead bashes into Holmes’ shoulder with enough force that it truly hurts. He stumbles back, throwing a hand against his pounding skull and blinking away the pain. When Holmes steps towards him, Watson knows enough is enough. He straightens up and, with a forceful push, he slams Holmes back into the wall. There’s a loud _thump_ as Holmes’ head connects with the wood behind, which Watson knows has to hurt, but Holmes doesn’t react, just watches Watson silently. Watson suddenly feels as though Holmes is the victim here, even though Holmes was the one who attacked him first.

He backs away and looks over his shoulder towards the closed door, hoping that Mrs. Hudson doesn’t come and check on them, as he feels that would only make things worse.

Before he can turn his head back to Holmes, Watson feels pressure against his chest and he’s taken by surprise. He braces for the rest of Holmes’ weight to throw them backwards onto the floor, but nothing happens; Holmes’ arms just wrap around his back tightly and Watson finds his nose burrowed in the mess that Holmes calls his hair.

Watson is thrown through a loop, a massive, Holmes-sized loop.

“Do not go, my dear friend,” Holmes says quietly, voice muffled in Watson’s shirt.

Watson has never heard Holmes sound so open, so sincere, it’s as though everything he thought he knew, his ultimate perception of Holmes, is being brought to the floor in a crashing heap. In his eyes, Holmes has always been strong and witty, a good leader – despite a few rough patches -- and a man who can get what he needs with a slick smile and a flashy show, but there’s nothing of that present for Watson to find as Holmes clutches helplessly at his body. Holmes is putting himself on the line and showing Watson his true self. Watson’s head hurts even more now; why does Holmes always do this to him?

“I’m leaving, Holmes, I’m sorry, but I am.”

Holmes pulls away and looks at him with such sadness, like he never wanted this to happen, but he doesn’t know what else to do. Watson hates the coldness that takes over where Holmes’ warm body was previously resting and he wonders despondently if a similar, though less physical chilliness will wash over the rest of his life if – no, _when_ – he leaves.

Holmes draws his hand back and for a second Watson thinks he’s going to try to hit him again, but then he realises that there’s probably not enough fight left inside Holmes for him to start over. He’s right, because, instead, the hand drifts with some uncertainty towards Watson’s chest, then his shoulder, before it finally falls to rest on the curve of Watson’s neck, the fingers wrapping gently around the back. For a brief second, Holmes’ blunt nails bite against his skin, but then there’s nothing but softness in the touch and Holmes looks at him as though he needs Watson to understand how he’s feeling. Watson doesn’t know how to get him to realise that their relationship goes both ways and that it’s just as hard for him to leave as it must be for Holmes to watch him go.

Watson draws back, moving just far enough away that Holmes’ hand slips from its position and drops heavily back to his side.

He just can’t live with Holmes any longer; it’s driving him slowly insane. He knows that spending more time away from Holmes will make Watson’s life decidedly less complex and things won’t be so detrimental to his health, but he’s only just worked up enough courage to finally do something about it. He’s balancing precariously on the edge, though, and he knows that Holmes has it in his power to make him change his mind, which is why he needs to leave, now. There’s a plan going on behind Holmes’ eyes and Watson doesn’t want to stick around to see it transpire.

Watson steps back, looks at Holmes one last time, then turns to leave, set on retiring for the rest of the night in his own room, with his own company. A tight hand on his wrist stops him and he bows his head in disappointment, both for Holmes not being able to let him go, and for himself for not having the strength to pull away. With a gentle, but firm tug, Holmes forces him to turn back around and before he can even try to begin to tell him all the reasons why he can’t stay, Holmes surges forwards and covers his lips with his own.

A million thoughts rush through his mind and, disturbingly, one of the more prominent ones is that he shouldn’t have eaten that last bit of onion at dinner because he’s sure the taste of it is still lingering somewhere in his mouth and Holmes might find it.

With careful hands, he pushes Holmes back. This isn’t what he needs right now, though, as it won’t help him walk away, which the sane part of his mind is screaming at him to do.

“Holmes, you can’t just do that,” but despite Watson’s words, Holmes presses back in, searing a hot, open-mouthed kiss over his lips. Watson steps back, away from the temptation.

“Don’t –” is all he gets out before Holmes moves in again; this time the kiss lands awkwardly on his chin, wet and soft and his integrity feels a little bit looser than before. With the last ounce of morality he has in him, he shifts backwards.

He really can’t take any more of what Holmes is throwing at him, but Holmes’ hand finds the back of his neck again and he’s so persistent, so needing of Watson’s affection, that when he whispers, “please, Watson,” against his lips, in a voice that’s more than half-broken, it’s too much. His resolve, which is already full of hairline fractures, finally tumbles down into rubble and dust, and he can’t see much through the haze, but that only makes it easier for him to push forwards and capture Holmes’ lips with his own.

Holmes throws up a white flag of surrender, though Watson realises he’s probably been waving it high above his head for some while now, just waiting for Watson to lower his pistol and get near enough to him to negotiate a treaty.

Watson’s mouth falls open against the pressing heat of Holmes’ own and he walks them backwards, until Holmes’ back hits the wall. Their teeth clack together and Watson grunts in pain, but Holmes doesn’t do anything, just continues kissing him. Watson’s hands move to Holmes’ hair, but he doesn’t know which one of them he’s trying to ground with the action; himself or Holmes. Holmes bites at his lips and sucks on his tongue; it’s the messiest kiss Watson has ever been a part of, but it makes sense, because it matches Holmes and everything he stands for, exactly.

Watson can’t keep up with Holmes’ fast pace, so he just leaves his mouth open for Holmes to do whatever he wants with it. Holmes’ tongue runs over his top teeth before tracing over part of his palate, and when Holmes moans his apparent appreciation at Watson’s submission, the noise vibrates and bubbles around his mouth like a crisp champagne.

Holmes pulls away, but apparently only so he can run his lips over more of Watson’s skin, because they drift along his jaw, then down to the pulse point on Watson’s throat. Holmes’ teeth nip minute bruises into his flesh – it hurts, but when Holmes’ tongue runs wetly over them to soothe the tender skin, Watson finds himself wanting more, wanting to give the same kind of pleasure back to Holmes in return.

Watson untangles his fingers from Holmes’ hair and moves his hands down to Holmes’ waist where he slips the tips of his fingers into Holmes’ trouser pockets and pulls their lower halves flush together. Watson can feel Holmes through their clothing, pressing solidly into his hip and it scares him because this isn’t something he’s used to, he’s used to women with curves and soft bellies and endless warmth between their thighs. Holmes is pure heat and hardness and muscle, but he reminds himself that it is indeed Holmes, his friend, who will always be familiar to him, even in strange moments like this.

Not wholly certain about what he should do, what Holmes wants from him, Watson ends up pushing against Holmes, forcing him harder into the wall, and rubbing gently against him. A huff of warm breath blows over his skin as Holmes exhales sharply and it’s the sign Watson needs to know that he’s going the right direction, that he’s not just lost in a maze of feelings and desires. He presses his hips further into Holmes’ own and this time it draws a gasp from Holmes, not just a silent breath.

Holmes suddenly thrusts their hips together himself, but even though it’s rushed, it’s done with a precision and knowledge that has Watson feeling rather boneless. All Watson can do is grip onto Holmes’ back and muffle his moans with his own teeth as he bites on his tongue to stop the runaway noises from slipping too far out. He feels utterly consumed by Holmes and his plaguing touches, but he can’t seem to get enough of them, like his body is saying, _well, since it’s the last time..._ but it’s not. It’s not a _goodbye_ , it’s just an _until next time_.

Still slowly moving their hips in time, Watson carefully undoes the closures on Holmes’ shirt, until it hangs open and Watson is able to slide his hands up along Holmes’ chest, to his shoulders, where he pushes the material back and pulls Holmes far enough away from the wall behind that the shirt drifts down Holmes’s body, to land in a puddle on the floor. Holmes falls back against the wall once more and Watson takes a moment to compose himself because Holmes is the personification of temptation and want and god knows what else. His chest is pale and smooth, rising and falling as Holmes gulps in shallow breaths; his cheeks are rosy with desire and his hair is every which way, as though he’s just woken up from a rather pleasant dream.

Watson finds himself wanting to see more, see how far Holmes can be pushed before he finally gives way to Watson and pleasure. He takes a step back, ignoring the gentle hum of protest Holmes lets out as their hips move out of range of one another, and lets his eyes fall to Holmes’ lower half.

The braces Holmes shoved off his shoulders somewhere around eight in the evening hang forlornly along Holmes’ legs, but their lack of use is to Watson’s advantage, as he only has to unfasten Holmes’ trousers before they tumble to the ground with the help of gravity. Holmes’ legs are slender, but when Watson slides his fingers down the side of one of Holmes’ thighs, he finds it toned under his touch.

Through Holmes’ white, and somewhat sheer, underwear Watson can see Holmes’ excitement and there’s a faint damp spot on the material, where he’s straining against it. To give him the slightest relief, Watson slips his fingertips under Holmes’ pants and pushes them down to join the rest of Holmes’ clothing on the floor. Slowly, Watson manoeuvres himself to his knees and from there, he encourages Holmes with light touches to the backs of his knees to step out of his garments, one foot at a time. Holmes’ shoeless state makes it easier and as a last minute thought, Watson slips Holmes’ socks off, too.

Completely naked and waiting for Watson, Holmes stays leaning against the wall behind, watching Watson carefully; Watson regards him in return for a few seconds, before turning his attention to Holmes’ cock, which juts from a thicket of dark curls. He’s going to have to go with his instincts and Holmes’ reactions on this one, because he’s never done this before, though he’s willing to give it his best go and hope that enthusiasm will make up for his lack of talent.

Watson shifts forwards and trails wet kisses up Holmes’ thigh, letting his tongue dart out to taste the salty skin under his mouth every now and then. Muscles tighten in Holmes’ legs – Watson can feel them tense in his wake – and Holmes draws in a breath through his teeth, the hissing noise it makes sounds a lot like pain, but Watson knows the only agony Holmes is feeling is from having to wait, as he’s slowly tortured by Watson’s mouth.

Watson stops, not because he doesn’t want to tease, but because he wants to skip ahead to the ending, where Holmes shuts his eyes, throws his head back, and simply lets himself go with Watson’s name rolling off his tongue.

He wets his lips, swallows, then moves his mouth to the base of Holmes’ cock, where his warm breaths make it twitch in anticipation. With the flat of his tongue, Watson traces along the side and the musky taste overloads his senses before he can even wrap his lips around it fully; there’s a salty taste, not dissimilar to that of the skin on Holmes’ thigh, but there’s a distinct tang underneath. He flicks his tongue at the underside of the head before drawing the tip into his mouth and sucking gently. Holmes’ hips jolt and Watson accidentally scrapes him with his teeth, but Holmes just lets out a small gasp and stills himself. Watson moves one hand to grip at Holmes’ waist, while the other curves around the base of Holmes’ cock, where Watson knows his mouth won’t be able to reach.

Slowly, Watson lets more of Holmes slide in between his lips, until he begins to feel his gag reflex start to kick in and he draws back, only to repeat the movements again and again, easily finding a rhythm. It’s not long before his jaw starts to ache and he can feel saliva start to run down his chin from one corner of his mouth; he draws back with a vulgar slurp and wipes at his face with the sleeve of his shirt. His lips throb, almost in time to the flesh in his other hand, and he licks them to slick them up again.

With his eyes on Holmes, Watson leans forward and presses a kiss to the flushed head of his erection; he rather enjoys the way Holmes opens and closes his mouth silently, as though everything in his mind has gone and he’s left as the vague shell of a simpleton. A bead of precome on the tip of Holmes’ cock stretches into a long, gossamer thread attached to Watson’s bottom lip as he pulls away, but he breaks it easily with a flick of his tongue.

He begins to stoke Holmes with a loose fist, tightening his fingers slightly when he reaches the head, and Holmes rolls his hips lazily in time, pushing himself gently into Watson’s hand; it’s easy, there’s no rush, and he dangerously starts thinking that if their lives were like this more often, he might not be so fixed on leaving.

One of Holmes’ hands falls to rest on Watson’s shoulder and grips just tight enough to remind him that it’s there, while the other falls to the side of Watson’s face, the fingers gently rubbing at Watson’s cheek, the thumb tracing lightly over Watson’s slick bottom lip.

After a moment, Holmes’ fingers curl around Watson’s jaw and with a slight tug, Watson is encouraged forward, back towards Holmes’ cock, which he takes into his mouth without complaint. He works his hand and mouth on Holmes steadily, taking note of Holmes’ increased respiration and the small moans that tumble from Holmes’ mouth more frequently as Holmes moves further towards complete bliss.

Watson rolls his tongue against the underside of Holmes’ cock and swallows the small measure of precome that drips freely into his mouth at the action. Holmes’ hand still rests over Watson’s cheek and Watson knows Holmes can feel himself as he slides in and out of Watson’s mouth; he wishes he could tell what Holmes is thinking because there’s nothing but endless pleasure in Holmes’ eyes. Without probably even meaning to, Holmes thrusts himself into Watson’s mouth, obviously too overcome, and Watson hums a warning around him. Holmes gasps loudly and clenches his eyes shut, a pleasing response, which only makes Watson vibrate his mouth around Holmes’ cock again.

“Watson, Watson!” Holmes begs as he opens his eyes again and uses them to plead with Watson further, clearly asking him to finish him off and end his torment. Watson can’t help but comply; he bobs his head with more vigour and uses his tongue to play against the slit of Holmes’ cock with every backward movement of his mouth.

The hand on Watson’s shoulder closes tightly around a clump of his shirt and tugs and even though Watson still has a palm resting on Holmes’ hipbone, it throws him off balance, and he slides forwards a few inches, Holmes’ cock sliding further down his throat. He ends up taking too much of Holmes at once and it makes his throat close violently at the intrusion. He quickly pulls back, moving to free his mouth completely, but at the last minute, a sudden rush of warmth fills his mouth and as Holmes’ cock slips from between his lips, warm come goes with it, running down his chin in thick trails.

Holmes pants above him, repeating something that might be Watson’s name, but Watson isn’t paying too much attention. His throat spasms and he can’t help it as he starts coughing and manages to spit the rest of Holmes’ come over the palm of the hand he brought up to cover his mouth with and over his trousers. The coughs subside and a wave of embarrassment washes over Watson. His face burns with shame as he wipes his hand on his leg and his face on his sleeve, trying to make himself look more presentable before he can bring himself to move his gaze back up to Holmes.

When he looks back up, he finds Holmes staring down at him, his eyes glassy and cheeks brightly coloured. Without breaking their eye contact, Holmes slowly slides down the wall, his knees splaying either side of Watson’s body, and then lets out a loud breath. Holmes smiles at him then carefully wraps a hand around the back of Watson’s head and draws him forwards, pressing their foreheads together.

Neither of them says anything for a long while, just content to enjoy the silence of the moment between them. Just before Watson thinks about pulling away – because he really should leave before they get in over their heads even more – Holmes pushes the bottom half of his face forwards and places his lips carefully over Watson’s own. Watson knows he shouldn’t, he’s already got himself into too much trouble, but he can’t help but open his mouth under Holmes’ and Holmes takes advantage and slips his tongue in, gently sweeping it around and licking away some of the remaining traces of himself.

What started out as a gentle moment, slowly heats up and Watson needs to pull away, but Holmes somehow gets his feet underneath himself and manages to rock Watson backwards, off his knees, before gently lowering him to the floor on his back. Watson shouldn’t, it’ll be easier for them if it stays as a one-way moment of gratification, but as Holmes unfastens his trousers and sneaks a warm hand into his underwear, he forgets how to say _stop_.

Watson’s knees fall apart easily and he lets Holmes continue to kiss him until he’s breathless, lets Holmes wrap a hand around him and stroke him unwaveringly until he’s writhing and pushing up into Holmes’ touch, silently begging for more. It’s an embarrassingly short amount of time before he comes, his cries of Holmes’ name swallowed up by the inside of Holmes’ mouth before they can ever escape. He feels boneless and breathless and everything in between, but he thinks he’ll be okay because Holmes is leaning over him still, like a ceiling beam that stops everything from falling down around him, keeps him from getting lost in the rubble, however, nothing ever lasts and Watson knows this.

With one last lingering kiss, Holmes draws back, slipping his hand out of Watson’s trousers gently, and sits back on his heels. He shows no shame about his state of dress, or lack thereof, as he stands and walks – giving Watson a clear view of his long, lean legs and pleasantly muscled back – to the mantle, where Watson knows he keeps a decanter of brandy. Watson stares at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath, as he listens to the sound of Holmes pouring out two glasses of the drink for them.

Everything in Watson’s life seems to have been shovelled away without his noticing and he finds himself at the bottom of a very large hole in the ground with only Holmes as company. Without Watson realising, Holmes has managed to wrap himself further around Watson’s senses and even though he was nearing the way out, finally about to escape from the pit Holmes had pulled him into to begin with, Watson finds himself back at square one, ankle deep in dirt with worms wriggling between his toes. With shaky hands, he does his trousers up and pushes himself to a sitting position.

Holmes walks back over and offers him one of the glasses, which he takes and quickly downs the liquid from inside; it burns away the last taste of Holmes in his mouth and settles uneasily in his stomach. He swipes his tongue over his teeth and sets the tumbler on the ground.

“Why can’t you let me go?” he asks Holmes, who slowly moves to sit beside him on the floor.

“Why can’t you just walk away from me?”

Holmes looks at him with an open expression and Watson has to glance away, as it feels as though the truth is written plainly over his face and that Holmes can read every word of it. Holmes leans against his shoulder, warm flesh pressing softly against the material of Watson’s shirt. After a second, Watson leans into him in return, and the two opposing forces keep them upright.

After everything – after everything they’ve been through – it suddenly dawns on Watson that that’s the reason why neither of them can let the other one go; without each other, they’d just topple over, but together, they remain balanced. That’s all their lives are: just one big balancing act in front of an audience that already knows they can’t keep walking the tightrope for eternity. One day they’re going to fall, but as Watson looks over and finds Holmes already staring at him, with an expression that says he rather hopes Watson will stay a while longer, he knows today’s not that day.


End file.
